


Air

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:44:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slice of Draco's year, which Neville is there for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Air

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
> 
> This is an edit version of the extremely old story, 'Always Air,' from my old FFN account, which I originally wrote before all the books were out.

The world’s spinning, and Draco’s having trouble standing up against it.

He’s lying on his back, watching the stone ceiling. The sides of his face sting, and his throat is dry, and it feels like he’s run a marathon. His cheeks are wet from crying. There’s a warmth beside him that makes everything _better_ , and it’s taken him too long to admit it.

Everything’s changed. He looks sideways, and hazel eyes seems to repeat firmly, ‘it’ll be okay.’ “We’ll figure this out.”

Numbly, Draco nods. He doesn’t know when they became a ‘ _we_.’ But they are now, and he wouldn’t go back if he could.

* * *

It’s early into the ride—the light’s still orange out the windows. Draco bustles down the corridor with Crabble and Goyle flanking him, looking for an empty compartment. He doesn’t find one, but he does find something better. There’s a boy half into one at the end, stuffing something green into his bag with one foot in the door. Draco can barely contain his smirk, and Crabbe and Goyle snicker.

The rest of the corridor’s empty. He gets all the luck. He gets to the end, and Neville—who stopped being _Longbottom_ sometime last year—looks up and blanches. Draco grabs his arm and shoves him into the compartment before anyone can see them. Neville takes one look at Crabbe and Goyle and doesn’t fight it.

Draco nods them away, because he’s got this. Neville’s frowning—his bag’s half open on the floor. Draco purrs, “How was your summer?” His voice is a mockery of care.

Without waiting for an answer, Draco turns and tugs the blinds down; Neville gulps behind him. When Draco takes a step forward, Neville takes a step back, and then again, until they’re pressed into the window. Draco flattens his body over Neville’s, and he can feel the walls vibrating behind them. There’s a certain satisfaction to dominating a Gryffindor, and the more Neville looks away, the more a thrill goes down Draco’s spine. He hisses, right next to Neville’s ear, “Did you miss me?”

Neville shudders, and his eyes flutter closed. His arms are stiff at his sides—he never knows what to do with anything. He’s too _easy_ , and it picks Draco right up. Neville audibly opens his mouth, mumbling, “Y... yeah...”

“I didn’t miss you,” Draco drawls. Neville’s warm all over, still in his civilian clothes, and his rough sweatervest scratches against Draco’s rich turtleneck. Draco shifts to press his leg between Neville’s thighs—Neville arches and gasps. “You’re nothing...” Voice deep and carelessly airy, Draco sighs, “When I don’t have you, you might as well be dead...”

Neville repeats, “Yeah,” voice thick. His eyes are still scrunched closed, and when Draco trails his fingers down Neville’s sides, he finds Neville’s hands balled into tight fists. He isn’t worried, though—he knows Neville wouldn’t hit him. Not good, kind, Gryffindor Neville—he’ll just wince and take it.

Draco tries to stifle the moan this power trip is giving him, and he runs his tongue along the shell of Neville’s ear. Neville’s whole body goes rigid—his eyes finally flutter open.

Draco hears the hand on the latch a second early; he wrenches off Neville. The door slides open, and Draco dons a scowl. As soon as the shock settles, Potter snarls, “Get away from him, Malfoy,” and Weasley’s already fishing out his wand.

With Crabbe and Goyle gone, Draco doesn’t do more than glare. He looks at Neville like he’s going to eat Neville alive, and he saunters out of the compartment drawling, “Later, losers.”

When he sits down with Pansy and Blaise, the temporary high has all but gone. He’s disappointed, and that bothers him. But Neville won’t come after him—that’s just how they are.

* * *

Draco’s hands tremble around the parchment’s edges, eyes unfocused.

He takes a step back and falls to his bed; his eagle owl decides he isn’t going to respond and takes off. Draco stares at his father’s sweeping, silver scrawl. It’s a few short sentences—a time and a date and a warning. More to come later. Draco didn’t know it was going to be set, let alone that it had. His father signed the letter ‘with love,’ but Draco feels distinctly betrayed.

He feels cold and terrified, the strut all sucked out of his step. He was the leader of the pack this morning. Now he’s going to be someone’s soldier, a marked tool with a brand on his arm—like his father—like cattle. Draco knows everything it means. It means the loss of his freedom, and the stench of war, and the constant fright of living amongst monsters.

He doesn’t _want_ it.

He doesn’t have a choice.

He gulps and tells himself he can do it. His inner voice sounds weak and unconvincing. He’s a giant until the real arrows come—then he’s a shaking child. He stands up abruptly—he wants to punch something. He wants to _cry_ , but Malfoys don’t _do that_. Class is in an hour.

* * *

Sometimes they ‘hang out.’ Draco’s ‘friends’ are insufferable, and he’s sitting around the back of the greenhouse, trying to finish his Charms homework. Draco’s excellent at Charms, like he’s excellent at everything, even if he isn’t _number one like fucking Granger._

Neville’s sitting in the grass next to the bench—vines are crawling all up the sides. They’re tucked between the glass wall and the main building; they can’t be seen together. Draco has a reputation and pride.

Neville’s got his legs drawn up to him, arms around them, head buried in his knees. It’s dreadful company, and after a minute, Draco drawls, “What’s wrong with you?” Not that that’s a thread he wants to tug at...

Neville sniffs and lifts his head, legs sliding out. He leans back against the bench, shoulder brushing Draco’s knees. He mutters, “I failed an assignment,” looking miserable.

Draco snorts—that’s nothing new. “You fail everything.”

For a minute, it’s quiet. Draco goes back to his essay—he hates the way Charms textbooks are written. Dry and insufferable. Neville mumbles, “...It was Herbology.”

Draco looks down and grunts, “So?”

“That’s my best subject... the only one I’m even remotely good at... Professor Sprout said I was doing fine...”

“That’s our easiest class.” That’s a lie. Draco’s mildly terrible at gardening—he hates touching dirt and he doesn’t like plants that seem to think. Divination’s probably easiest—it’s a bunch of bullshit anyone can make up on the spot. They’re quiet again for a while, Draco fluffing his essay up with superfluous language just to make it reach the length requirement.

When Neville tilts his head back to look up at Draco, Draco pauses.

The corners of Neville’s eyes are indistinctly wet, but he looks more defiant than he ever has. It’s sudden and strange. Draco can see him getting stronger, but it still doesn’t feel _right_ —Neville’s been a clumsy punching bag since first year, and Draco’s always been a prince or a bully.

Neville demands, “Is that it? You don’t have any more witty comments?”

Draco blinks. He doesn’t like the way things are changing. Neville’s supposed to be there _just for him_ , but it’s not supposed to work the other way around. They aren’t anything, and he doesn’t owe Neville anything. He grumbles, “You fuck everything up. What, I’m supposed to entertain you every minute? It’s not my fault you don’t have any real friends or anywhere else to be, you clumsy squib. Don’t think you’re more than you are.” Draco gets to his feet, tossing all of his things back into his bag, cheeks heating up.

Neville’s supposed to be _his_ , but that doesn’t mean he has to care about Neville, and he turns around challengingly.

Neville doesn’t move to fight Draco back—he never does.

Draco storms off, feeling sick.

* * *

The dungeons are colder than usual, and the lake water’s cast the common room in an eerie green glow. Draco storms through it with a mixture of inexplicable rage and uncontrollable fear. Whenever he looks at his arm now, he has to stare longer than necessary—that pale expanse of skin won’t last for very long.

He’ll be ugly. He’ll be _owned_ , and that thought terrifies him more than anything. He fumes past Pansy and Blaise, who ask him to sit and study with them. Homework seems so pointless now, like everything.

He goes into the dormitories and chases Crabbe out—he collapses on his bed face-first. He wishes he were five again, with his mother there to hold him. There isn’t anyone there for him now, and he buries his face in his pillow.

He got another letter from his father. A list of protocol; how to prepare. The feast felt like his last meal.

He wants to be five again. He wants to punch everyone and get away with it. Instead, he crumbles into his pillow, feeling like a balloon with the air let out.

He wonders where Neville is and hates himself for it. He wonders what life would be like without all these expectations and the trickled down laws of a failed madman with his family hostage. If he knew any other way...

* * *

The window’s open and the breeze drifts through, gentle and warm. Draco’s on his back with his shirt undone; Neville’s on his stomach with his shirt off. Neville’s arm is draped across Draco’s chest, but he’s still too heady and breathless to care. His skin is tinged with sweat, his trousers undone. The couch is too small for both of them to fit—their legs are tangled.

There isn’t room in the small classroom to transfigure it any bigger without hitting the desks. The door was unlocked—it’s always a gamble to find one. Now it’s locked from the inside, spelled quiet and dimly-lit.

Draco’s heart is clenching. He’s been meaning to hiss for hours, before hormones and anger got the better of him, “I don’t like you talking to him.”

Neville shifts—his head is hooked over Draco’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. Draco walked in on Neville and Potter talking in the library earlier—it irks him to think Neville has friends. It’s worse to think of more—but he shuts that up—tells himself Neville’s worth shit; no one will ever take him away. When Neville doesn’t say anything, Draco growls, half to himself, “You’re _mine_ , and no one else should touch you.”

Neville doesn’t deny anything. Neville doesn’t try to calm him down, or try to make things better, or even fight him back. Neville says simply, “...You’re jealous.” And it sounds sort of like a question.

Sneering, Draco scoffs, “Don’t act like I care.” Which is such bullshit and such hypocrisy, but Neville doesn’t call him on it.

Neville shifts up on his arms—he bends down to peck Draco’s cheek.

Draco grabs a fistful of brown hair, jerking Neville down for a full, open-mouthed kiss. Neville tastes like pumpkin juice from the feast, and he smells like sex. The air is heavy with it. Draco rolls them over, crushing Neville down into the couch, grinding into him. He kisses his way down Neville’s jaw, leaving hard, angry bites, and he sucks on Neville’s neck, wanting to leave marks everywhere. Neville moans and arches into it, whispering Draco’s name.

* * *

Draco tells himself he isn’t going to do it, over and over. But he’s shaking so hard, and he can’t control it. His feet move of their accord—he pulls the list out of his pocket—passwords he stole from his forgetful Gryffindor. The ugly portrait outside the tower doesn’t want to let him in, but has to.

Draco doesn’t even care that he doesn’t have Crabbe and Goyle. The common room is a hideous, blinding array of red and gold, but he doesn’t stop to look at anything. Neville’s sitting at a smell desk in the corner, prodding a potted plant. He looks up as Draco gets closer, and the colour drains out of his face.

Draco grabs Neville’s hand without a word, tugging him back to the portrait hole. Several Gryffindors in their year yell at him to stop, but Neville tells them, “It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. Draco’s nearly hyperventilating. He wants to go back to the dungeons—wants to go back to his room and find the letters _not there_. He gets to the fifth floor and can’t take it anymore; he pulls Neville down a corridor.

Neville takes over. He grabs Draco’s hand and he weaves them down hallways, pacing over and over down a certain passageway. A door appears out of nowhere, and Draco pulls him inside. Draco doesn’t want to let go.

When he has the Dark Mark, will Neville still let Draco touch him? It shouldn’t matter. Draco will _make_ him take it, knowing that’s not true—Neville leads Draco to a soft bed, sitting him down on it.

* * *

It was only supposed to be little things—stray moments here and there. But there’s so _many_ of them, and they’ve all added up, until Draco’s chasing him all the time. Draco’s eyes follow his back through the hall, Draco sidles up to him in classes, and Draco pulls him into dead ends and flattens him into walls. Neville always goes where Draco pushes him, never hitting back.

Neville’s strong and quiet, thoughtful and reliable. He’s there for Draco whenever Draco needs it, and he’s comfort when Draco can’t breathe. He holds Draco up and stands against everything, even when Draco knees buckle. Neville’s grown handsome with the years—Draco thinks about him at night when they’re apart, though he doesn’t want to admit that.

Draco’s a fucking disgrace. He’d be disowned if his father knew how far he’s fallen. He doesn’t want the Dark Mark and he wants to spend every night with a Gryffindor—he isn’t even sure who he is anymore. He hesitates to flatten Neville into the wall, and Neville’s eyebrows knit together—pity was never something Draco wanted.

“What’s wrong?”

Neville’s voice is heavy, thick with lust. They’re alone and their robes are on the floor, and Draco wants this, he does. But he can’t think straight, and it’s freezing him up. He thinks of the letter, and what that’ll change. Neville says quietly, “It’ll be okay.”

Draco shakes his head. He doesn’t want to spill his guts to someone who _isn’t supposed to_ be important. He tries to kiss Neville; Neville pushes him back. Neville holds their foreheads together—Draco’s heart is racing. Draco’s eyes flutter closed when Neville pecks him right between the eyes, mumbling softly, “ _I love you._ ”

Draco growls, “I fucking hate you, Longbottom,” because he thinks that might make things easier.

It doesn’t.

* * *

They’re sitting against the headboard, and now that Draco has Neville, he doesn’t know what to say. He thinks he should say everything, and he wants to rip every word out of his skull and paint it all over the walls—wants it all out of him. Neville asks, “What’s wrong?” in a stern, steady voice.

Draco’s shaking like a child. Another letter. The final one. It’s coming. An exact location, and a list of those attending. _He’ll_ be there. There isn’t any way out.

Draco owled his mother for support. He didn’t tell her his full thoughts, of course; he doesn’t want to worry her. He said he had ‘concerns.’ She said to stand strong like his father—there isn’t any point in doing anything else—their fate has all been decided.

Draco wants another hand. He wants a new set of cards. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out, and Neville puts a hand on his knee, repeating softly, “Draco, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t want the fucking Dark Mark,” Draco chokes, before he can stop himself. He looks at Neville with welling up eyes. “I don’t want to serve _him_ , and I want my father free, and I don’t want to have to worry about my mother, and I don’t want there to be a real _war_ and I don’t want to fight in it.” He doesn’t know who he’ll be there, and he doesn’t know who he is here. He was comfortable with first year, and now everything’s changed.

Neville squeezes his knee, murmuring, “It’ll be alright.”

“Fuck you, Longbottom! Are you fucking insane?” Draco swats Neville’s hand away and shifts to his side, so he can look Neville right in the eyes and spit like he wants to, fuming and broken all at once. “Don’t you get it? It’s not going to be fucking alright—I’m a dead man!”

As Draco’s lungs shake with the aftermath of his breakdown, he regrets himself. It isn’t a feeling he’s used to, and it makes him sick. Concern is all over Neville’s face, and he takes Draco’s hand again, holding it tight. “We’ll go to Dumbledore,” Neville says, “And he’ll protect you. It won’t be easy, but that’s just what this is.”

Draco tries to jerk his hand away, but Neville holds it firm. “I can’t go to Dumbledore,” he practically sobs. He can feel his eyes stinging, and he feels like an idiot. Neville doesn’t fight him. He just nods, like it’s alright. They’ll get through it. They’ll find something, someway, and...

The thought of not losing Neville is a weight of his chest. He thought Neville would bolt or turn him in—they’d fight or duel. Neville repeats, “We’ll get through it.”

He looks so very _sure_ of it that it makes Draco waver. It isn’t Draco that will get through it—it’s a ‘ _we_.’

Something hits Draco collarbone. His cheeks are wet; he’s crying.

Neville opens his arms. Draco almost lunges into them, wrapping himself around Neville like a rock in a storm. Neville rubs his back, _there for him_ , says it’ll be okay and holds him, kisses his cheek and murmurs, “I love you.” ...For the first time, Draco wonders _why._

Neville strokes his hair, purring, “And don’t bother insulting me and trying to run off—we’re getting too old for that.” And that won’t solve anything. It just sets him back, And Draco... has to change so much.

“I love you,” Neville repeats. “...I know what Death Eaters look like, and you aren’t one.” Draco shivers—he was bred for this.

Then he went away and grew up wrong, and now he’s part of a ‘we’ he never meant to be, and he couldn’t disentangle himself from Neville’s arms if he wanted to. He’s melded into them like he belongs there, and slowly his pulse slows down to normal. His sobs wrack his body to pieces, until he slumps against Neville for strength.

There’s a lump in Draco’s throat, and he doesn’t mean to speak. He mumbles hoarsely, _“Please don’t ever leave me.”_

Neville leans against Draco’s shoulder: perfect and there.

Like he always was.


End file.
